SUN #3
I hesitate. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t say something stupid, so why fight it?
"No fun to flirt with Ferro’s fucktoy, right?"
Silence. He keeps scrubbing the planter, then speaks slowly, like he’s carefully picking each word.
"Is that what you are right now?"
My lips press together. A sharp ache hits my chest. The feeling that he really isn’t one of Anzo’s goons gets stronger. What if I just told him the truth? Just… laid it out.
"Not by choice. But yeah. That’s where I ended up."
He closes his eyes, and his heartbeat picks up slightly. There’s a strange, heavy pause. He seems to be weighing my words, turning them over in his mind. I almost feel bad for dumping that kind of brutal honesty on him so casually. Now he has to sit with it.
Finally, he says, "I am sorry for your situation, but when I started working here, I was told not to interfere with Mr. Ferro's business under any circumstances. I'm not supposed to give my opinion or judge anyone. But if there's anything I can do for you—"
A quiet snort escapes me. "No, that’s not why I’m here!"
The gardener continues to work, before saying in a low voice,
"You know, even talking to you could get me in trouble, right?"
Shit. Maybe he really isn’t part of this. What if all this time I’ve been clinging to some innocent civilian, endangering him?
"I know, sorry," I whisper, my voice soft and apologetic.
"It’s the same for me. But I just…" I trail off.
Emotions stir in me again, no matter how hard I try to stop them.
The truth slips out, my voice cracking just a little.
"I just want to feel some kind of human connection.
To forget my situation for a few fucking minutes. "
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I really asking for comfort from the damn gardener?
He lifts his eyes to mine. Those dark blue contact lenses don’t suit his handsome face. He should have lighter eyes. With that artificial shade staring back at me, it’s like I can’t really see him. There’s a layer between us, thin but impenetrable.
"That sounds… very disturbing, and I don't even know how to respond," he says slowly. "I assume you don't expect me to call the police, right?"
I let out a breath. "Right. I don’t want anything from you. Like I said, I just need to talk to someone who doesn’t want to beat me or rape me. I just… want to stay sane, to feel normal." My voice cracks slightly.
I didn’t mean to go this deep, but it keeps pouring out of me, swelling like a tide ready to drown us in it.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His fists clench too, and his heart beats faster. My words hit harder than I expected. Or maybe exactly as hard as they should, if he’s a person with a sense of morality.
"Listen… if there’s any way I can help you, something that doesn’t put you or me in more danger, just tell me what it is. I can even try to contact your family, or—"
I cut him off, my voice ridiculously high-pitched. "No! Don’t do that. That would only bring Anzo’s wrath down on them. I swear, the only reason I came to you is because you’re the only one here who isn’t one of his soldiers. That means maybe you’re just… good. Or at least normal."
There’s this sad, bitter smile on his face. "I’m far from good. And definitely not normal. But you’re right, I’m not one of his soldiers, I never will be. I’m just a… um… gardener."
But the way he says it… something shifts. His voice goes weirdly flat. I don’t know why, but it sounds off. Like he’s not telling the truth.
But why lie? He is a gardener. Isn’t he?
"You’re not… like, a cop or something?"
Typical me, the question spills out before I can stop it.
He laughs. A real, genuine laugh. "No, I’m not a cop. But even if I were, do you think I’d tell you?" He winks.
I blush, okay, fair. That was dumb. "Right, sorry. I’m not exactly an expert on how to behave when you’re a mole, pretty sure step one is not telling the first random guy you run into in a mafia stronghold," I say with a grin.
He smiles, just a little, but quickly gets serious again and answers,
"I hope things get better for you soon. I don’t know what advice I can really give, but for your own safety, and to minimize the risk of… provoking violence, try not to stand out. Obey when you can. Guys like that—" he hesitates, "they have huge egos."
"Yeah, that’s not really my thing. My big mouth gets me in trouble. I keep talking back to him. The collar he put on me is electric. If something pisses him off, it shocks me."
The man glances at my neck, with furrowed brows, then turns back to scrubbing out a flowerpot, his jaw tight.
"You know… maybe you shouldn’t be telling me all this. It makes things even more difficult for both of us."
I blink, thrown off.
"I don’t get it."
"Seriously? That makes me a monster. I’m just sitting here, listening to how you suffer, doing nothing."
We lock eyes. And suddenly, I understand: he’s right.
I’m telling him about the nightmare I’m trapped in like it’s no big deal.
He can’t help, and the casual normalization of it bothers him.
The guy’s got a conscience, which makes it even more tragic, because now, in a way, we’re both held hostage by the mafia.
"That’s not what I meant," I whisper. "I wasn’t trying to—"
"You open up to someone, you share what you’re going through, and still, nothing. Yet another shot at help… just slipping away."
He’s right again . A deep part of me was hoping he’d do something, anything, to help. But he can’t just bust me out of here. I can’t risk my family.
"Sorry," I say quietly, lowering my head. "This is just my everyday now. I just wanted to feel free from it, even for a minute."
"I get it. But I simply don’t want to be the reason you feel even worse."
Taking a deep breath, I promise myself to get a grip. I need to find a better way to claw my way out of this hellhole than latching onto some innocent guy and burdening him with my tragedy.
I glance at his arm. For a moment, I study his falcon tattoo. It's artistic, beautiful, and seems almost alive.
There’s also a thin line there, on his skin, could be a scar. Maybe I could ask him about it, but it’s probably too soon. Who knows, maybe it's a painful memory, and who am I to pry into his private affairs.
Instead, my eyes drift to the veins standing out on his forearm.
His hands look strong, masculine, sexy, if you can even say that about hands.
For a second, I try to catch his Allure again, but I can’t.
The blockers are on. All I get is soap, body wash, freshly cut grass.
For a gardener, he smells clean and good.
"You on suppressants?"
He raises his brows slightly. "I am."
"Why? You don’t exactly work in a corporate air-conditioned office where your employer would care."
He lets out a soft snort.
"People take suppressants for all kinds of reasons. I work around guys who are regularly involved in violent situations. When they come back from that, they’re still pumped full of adrenaline and testosterone.
The strong scent of another alpha can set them off even more.
Same reason they use suppressants in the military, in law enforcement. In any high-stress job."
"I didn’t know that. But yeah, that makes sense," I nod. "Smart move, reducing the risk. I wish I could be like that. But I’m the opposite, I just make things worse. Always diving headfirst into the stupidest shit," I admit, a little embarrassed.
He gives me a quick glance but doesn’t ask anything. I’ve already told him too much.
"I was just curious because I’m still figuring this out, you know? The sniffing. I only started picking up on pheromones about a year ago. That’s when my glands matured."
He blinks, lifting his tanned face to me, staring at me with mild shock. "A year ago? So how old are you?"
"Turned eighteen two months ago."
His face twists in horror. He mutters a curse under his breath. "Holy shit! You’re that young?" He adds, "You look older," and I see him swallow. A faint flush creeps into his cheek.
Well… under normal circumstances, I might smile a little smugly. His reaction definitely hints at some less-than-innocent thoughts about me. But now? Nothing’s funny.
"Just don’t treat me like a kid," I mutter.
"It’s not that," he says. "It’s just… I can’t wrap my head around how someone like Anzo could do this…" He stops suddenly, like he’s realized he said too much.
"He didn’t know," I admit. "I mean, when he first saw me, it’s not like I have my birth date plastered on my forehead. But now? Yeah, he definitely knows."
His reaction is no surprise. I do really look older. People usually think I’m twenty. I’m tall, well-built, and probably still growing. My alpha brothers are all six-foot-six, seven or even six-foot-eight.
"What about you? How old are you?"
"Twenty-four," he says tersely, going back to cleaning the pot.
"Six years. That’s not so much."
His eyebrow shoots up. "Not so much… in what sense?"
Of course it sounded like I was comparing our ages in that way, like I’m wondering if we’d work together. Stupid.
"I just meant… you’re not that much older."
The gardener slowly stands up. Wow, it hits me every time how tall he is. Seven feet? Maybe even seven-one? I have to tilt my head way back to look him in the eye. He looks like the fucking Hulk, massive, towering over me like a tree.
Silence stretches between us. I look up at him and bite my lower lip. His gaze drops to my mouth, and lingers. Then, slowly, it rises back to meet my eyes.
A strange shiver ripples through me. A desperate need to reach out and touch his chest, feel the bulging muscle under my fingers.
I want to press my whole body against his, like he’s really a tree that could stand against a hurricane.
Something solid that might save me from getting swallowed whole by the void.